


We'll Meet Again

by DownToTheSea



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 1940s, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Historical, Mutual Pining, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 11:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownToTheSea/pseuds/DownToTheSea
Summary: After Crowley saves Aziraphale and his books from the Nazis, he leaves England. Aziraphale worries and pines, though he would only admit to one of those things, until one not-so-sunny day when the war is over.





	We'll Meet Again

**Author's Note:**

> For a prompt on Tumblr - "reunion hug"

After the church, Aziraphale didn't see much of Crowley. He stayed in England, making as many miracles as he could to soften the dreadful day-to-day miseries of war – a bomb averted here, a hospital full of dying men healed there. (And if, mysteriously, a few extra miracles than he was strictly allotted were used to ensure no bombs ever fell on a bookshop in Soho, Aziraphale comforted himself and his reports to Heaven with the knowledge that many human lives were saved by redirecting them to unpopulated areas.)

But Crowley had left London and spent the rest of the war on the continent: causing trouble for the Nazis, for the most part, although he picked up some warfront miracles for Aziraphale in exchange for a few minor temptations back home. Aziraphale wasn't certain how he was getting away with consistently wreaking havoc on the side he was supposed to be encouraging, but during one brief visit to London Crowley assured him he was very good at putting a creative spin on his reports to Hell.

The toneless voice he said this in made Aziraphale glance up at him sharply, forgetting the fine wine he had broken out especially in honor of Crowley's visit.

He was tired and worn down; the tinted glasses were firmly on that night and Aziraphale couldn't get a look at his eyes, but hopelessness was written in his every line. The black hat was still tilted at a jaunty, careless angle, but Aziraphale thought it might have been because Crowley actually didn't care, not because he was trying to look dashing. Even if he did still look  _ quite  _ dashing. (Aziraphale hastily and ruthlessly quashed the thought.)

"How – how bad is it really, over there?" he ventured.

"Bad," Crowley said flatly. “And it’s only going to get worse.” He spent the rest of the night getting immensely drunk.

"Is there anything I can do?" Aziraphale asked the next morning as Crowley was leaving. He paused at the door, looking back at Aziraphale with an unreadable expression.

"Stay here," he said at last. "Where you… Just stay here."

That was the last time Aziraphale saw him for several years. He tried not to worry – after all, Hell thought Crowley was doing a wonderful job, so even if he was discorporated (Aziraphale shuddered) he would no doubt be resupplied with a body and sent back to Earth post-haste.

Still, he worried all the same, because it wasn't every day one realized that one was in love with one's best friend of six thousand years, and now Crowley had gone off to  _ war,  _ and what if he was discorporated or Hell figured out what he was up to, or both? Aziraphale might never see him again. The thought made him feel like someone had slid a dagger into his chest. (Not that Aziraphale had a real frame of reference, having never been stabbed. He just read a lot of spy novels.) But Crowley was a  _ demon  _ and Aziraphale was an  _ angel,  _ and he  _ shouldn't  _ feel the way he did, but he  _ did,  _ and oh, it was all so terribly muddled...

So Aziraphale went, around and around in circles. He found himself listening to wartime love songs, every note quavering with longing for the singer's sweetheart to make it back safe and sound, and even if he told himself it was only because he liked the music, tears sometimes collected in his eyes and spilled over before he could stop them.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said to himself, switching the record to something a bit happier. "Don't be ridiculous! It's – it's only that humans are so wonderfully talented at evoking emotion with their music. Yes, yes, that's it. Of course. No need to be silly! Amazing, humans. No need at all."

Feeling not one whit better, he started the new record and opened the doors for the day with a bit too much enthusiasm. They banged open, reminding him of Crowley again. He was always in a hurry, throwing doors open right and left...

For an instant, pure, aching longing suffused him. "Books for sale!" he called out distractedly in a high and rather strangled voice. He immediately regretted reminding people that he was, in theory, selling books, but at least chasing away customers took his mind off… other things.

1945 came around, and VE Day, and Aziraphale watched the jubilant crowds from his shop and smiled so widely his face hurt. A few hours later, he turned the sign to Closed and went out, passing unnoticed through the crowds, his eyes half-closed as he soaked up all the joy floating through the air.

He expected Crowley soon after that, but days and then weeks went by and still there was no uncomfortably comforting demonic presence in his shop. Now in the aftermath, Aziraphale would sometimes see people being reunited with their loved ones, or finding out their loved ones would never be coming back. He tried to soothe the forlorn and bless the joyful as well as he could, but there was always a tiny part of him wondering which one  _ he  _ would be. There would be no one to comfort him either way, for loving or for mourning a demon.

One warm, rainy day in midsummer, Aziraphale was perched high on a stepladder inventing new ways to cram even more books out of comfortable reach of customers. His shop door opened, blowing in a muggy gust of air and scattering raindrops over the floor. The bell dinged loudly.

"Excuse me," Aziraphale called in the politely annoyed voice he had developed over the years, attention still focused on the teetering books in front of his face. "I'll be with you in a moment." A moment, in Aziraphale’s bookshop, meant anywhere between fifteen minutes to several hours.

"Would it speed things along if I promised not to buy anything?" The voice – unmistakable,  _ beautiful  _ – approached Aziraphale as it drawled out the words until it was directly beside him.

"Crowley!" Aziraphale spun in delight; or that’s what he meant to do, but he had forgotten that he wasn't on solid ground, and his foot caught in the stepladder. His balance was thrown off as he twisted, and he found himself toppling towards Crowley at an alarmingly fast pace.

Crowley let out a yelp as an angel, a stepladder, and a small stack of books all flew towards his head. The stepladder blinked out of existence before it cracked against him or Aziraphale; his arms came up to catch the angel before his  _ head  _ cracked against something, and the books…

"The books!" Aziraphale cried, joy momentarily forgotten.

Crowley tilted his head back, and Aziraphale glanced up to see each and every book in pristine condition.

"Oh," he breathed, and two waves of overpowering relief crashed over him: one concerning the demon currently holding him, and one concerning the books now scattered messily on his shelves. The former was rather stronger than the latter, and combined they were powerful enough that he forgot to resist his first impulse, which was to throw his arms around Crowley's neck.

Crowley went very still. "Mmpf," he said. "Ghhhh."

"You're safe," Aziraphale whispered. "You came back."

In another corner of the bookshop, a Vera Lynn record began playing of its own accord.

"Nnnnnn," said Crowley helplessly. He set Aziraphale on his feet, but Aziraphale didn't relinquish his hold on him.

It was only when Crowley relaxed slightly into the embrace and one of his arms began to snake tentatively around Aziraphale in return that he was jolted back to reality. The pleasant thoughts swirling through his head – wordless, but if they would have had words they would have been  _ Crowley, Crowley is safe, Crowley is here, everything is fine, it really feels rather  _ nice  _ to hold him like this –  _ were replaced by an angry crash of proverbial thunder and a voice that sounded a great deal like the Archangel Gabriel, shouting,  **_"Wrong!"_ **

Aziraphale jumped back from Crowley with sudden panic, but they were still the only two in the shop, and no one had seen them. Crowley's arm fell back to his side, and Aziraphale noticed for the first time that his glasses were pushed up and his eyes on full display. They were wide and for the most part  _ utterly  _ bewildered, but Aziraphale caught a quick flash of pain and then, mercifully drowning it, a burst of – hope?

"I… I… Thank you," he managed through a sudden thick lump in his throat. He waved vaguely at the books Crowley had once again saved, then rushed on before he thought better of making himself a fool all over again. "I'm very glad you're back. That you're – you know – all right?"

This emerged as more of a question than he had intended, but in Aziraphale’s defense, he had just run a veritable gauntlet of emotions, and getting any words at all out was quite a victory. Thankfully, Crowley seemed to have regained his own powers of speech as well.

"Course I'm alright, angel." Crowley slid his glasses back down over his eyes. "It takes a lot more than some idiotic humans with guns to get rid of me."

That wasn't  _ entirely  _ what Aziraphale had meant, but he took it as a good sign.

"Don't suppose you'd want to have lunch?" Crowley asked a moment later. "I've been a bit out of the loop, could use some catching up about what's gone on back here."

"I'd love to." Perhaps Aziraphale infused these words with a tad more warmth than necessary, but he was very glad that the awkward moment seemed to have passed and things were going back to normal. Relatively normal, at least.

"What happened to the hat?" he asked as he locked the shop door and began strolling down the street with Crowley. It was still raining, and he opened up a tartan-patterned umbrella over the both of them. Crowley glanced up and snorted, but said nothing. The air that had felt heavy and humid earlier now seemed warm and comfortable, and Aziraphale felt himself relaxing somewhat for the first time in years.

"Lost it," Crowley said mournfully. "I'm going to have to get a new one now that I'm back."

"Oh, that is a shame," said Aziraphale. "You know, I've been going to this remarkable little place…"

Behind them, in the darkened bookshop, the song came to its soft close. The final notes lingered in the still air, as if waiting for the record to switch and a new song to begin.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song "We'll Meet Again." (Was the record player waiting for "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square"? Yes, yes it was.)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! <3 (Still nervous about writing these nerds, but I really appreciate all the lovely comments on my first fic for them! :D)


End file.
